


Score

by porcelainepeony



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, My sorry excuse for almost porn, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 23:11:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4118173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcelainepeony/pseuds/porcelainepeony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Did you like it, Chihiro?" </p><p>Akashi's voice is almost as beautiful as the piece he was playing moments before, and you curse your thoughts for making the comparison. You never asked to crush on a rich know-it-all brat, but you cannot stop staring at his face when he speaks.</p><p>“It’s beautiful. Is that what you want me to say?”</p><p>Akashi smiles. You know that is the answer Akashi wants, but what he does not know is that you do not mean to compliment the piece he played. In fact, you are talking about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Score

Notes: I DON'T KNOW ANYMORE. I am a pervert. I AM NOT SORRY THOUGH. There might be a part two just because. 

xxx

When Akashi asks you to come over, you are reluctant. But you accept, knowing very well that Akashi would find another way to coax you into doing what he wants if you refuse in the first place. He always does. He is, as he says, absolute, and you cannot tell him no for too long, lest you want his fiery eyes to scorch you and leave you bare and burned beyond recognition.

The sound that fills the air is soothing, melodious. It engulfs you, and you forget that the person holding the violin is Akashi. His brows are furrowed, his concentration almost endearing. It is as if he has forgotten you are there, sitting in a chair in the middle of the room, the only spectator to a grand performance. You feel special. Just a little. Because here is Akashi, the one person who is hard to crack, impossible to read, difficult to decipher, but he is playing with such conviction and passion only for your eyes, only for _you._

You briefly wonder if you are dreaming. It makes sense. Akashi is never so open. The only time he reveals himself is when he is in your dreams, hovering over you, smiling that stupid smile as he presses his hands against your chest, as he leans down and swallows your gasps, as he pushes inside and tears you open as payment for momentarily relinquishing his defenses. He is only open like this when you are lying in bed alone, your eyes closed, your hand wrapped around your erection as you imagine kissing down a pale neck, slamming into a needy body, hearing him murmur your name almost desperately, as if he needs you like you need him.

The music slows, but your heart continues to race. You cannot tear your gaze from Akashi, whose face is serene and lost in the piece he is playing. You mentally laugh. _Brat. You_ have _forgotten that I'm here, haven't you?_ Now you are convinced that Akashi invited you for the concert only to make you fall harder, for Akashi had to be aware of the way your eyes linger on his lips, of the way you blush when he steps too close, of the sigh that escapes you whenever he allows you to kiss him in secret on the rooftop. So you know that Akashi is toying with you. Isn't he always? 

"Did you like it, Chihiro?" 

Akashi's voice is almost as beautiful as the piece he was playing moments before, and you curse your thoughts for making the comparison. You never asked to crush on a rich know-it-all brat, but you cannot stop staring at his face when he speaks.

“It’s beautiful. Is that what you want me to say?”

Akashi smiles. You know that is the answer Akashi wants, but what he does not know is that you do not mean to compliment the piece he played. In fact, you are talking about him. About that stupid-- _creepy_ \--smile and those enchanting-- _hateful_ \--eyes and that porcelain-- _deathly_ \--skin. He is beautiful, and you hate him for being so.

“Play another,” you blurt. But you feel proud of yourself. For a second, Akashi looks surprised, completely taken aback by your request.

However, it is he who surprises you, for he does what you ask without inquiry. _What’s this? You’re not even going to question me?_

As soon as he raises the violin and begins to play once more, you realize he is not at all curious about your outburst. Again, you are captivated by his concentration, by the way he seemingly forgets everything else in the room, save for the instrument in his hand. This time, though, his eyes are piercing you, intense reds and ambers flickering as they catch the light that peeks through the curtains. You are not sure if you like the stare, for the colors in the depths of Akashi’s eyes set you ablaze, but you cannot help but gaze back and hope your own stare moves some part of Akashi’s soul.

Then, something snaps in your head, and you stand from the chair in which you have been sitting and move closer to Akashi. The music doesn’t stop, and you pray that it will not, for you are getting too close to the devil, and, to be honest, you like yourself too much and would like to keep your head. But you approach him, nonetheless, your gaze pinning his, challenging him to ignore you and finish the score.

When you are close enough, you fall to your knees in front of Akashi, mindless of how pathetic you look in front of him, on the ground, aching need radiating in your dark, slate-colored eyes. Desperately, you reach forward, grab Akashi’s belt, and pull slightly. Your gaze meets his once more, and you notice that curiosity is shining in his eyes. You try to remain in control—you are never in control—so you smirk, undo his belt, and clumsily pull his slacks and boxers down. The melody Akashi plays continues, pausing only briefly when cold air hits his warm skin. You wonder if he is going to keep playing, despite what you intend to do. Somehow, the thought excites you beyond comprehension. 

Your fingers tremble as they touch the pale skin of Akashi’s thighs, and you think you hear a small gasp. But Akashi continues to play, and you take advantage of his determination to press your lips against soft skin. His hips are magical, you decide, and your mouth belongs on the contours and curves of his body, teasing and marking his perfect, unmarred skin. Gingerly, with the intention to inflict the utmost of deliriums, you kiss along his hipbone and toward his crotch. 

Akashi shudders, and you cannot help but smile as a soft “Chihiro” falls from his lips. It is a warning, but whether Akashi means to tell you to stop or implore you to continue is entirely up for debate. And you choose the latter because Akashi tastes like all the wrong things in the world blended into the most beautiful concoction that will ever be known to man, and he is yours. Whether he knows it or not, whether he realizes it or accepts it, he is yours. You will make it so. 

Your fingers wrap around his length delicately. Slowly, you bring your mouth to the tip and press it against your lips experimentally. Akashi’s harsh intake of breath pleases you, and though he continues to play, you know he will not hold out for long. 

When you part your lips and take the head into your mouth, Akashi’s legs quiver. You are slow and careful, making sure every move is deliberate. Your free hand moves to the back of Akashi’s thigh and slowly travels higher. Then, when your hand is cupping a supple cheek, you pull him closer, until he is buried deep in your mouth. Akashi’s moan mingles with the music, and you cannot help but mentally smile. You are the one making Akashi break. You are the one causing him to lose himself. You are the one responsible for his soft cries and hushed gasps. 

Akashi’s taste washes over your tongue. You are greedy, however, and want to taste every last bit of him, no matter how overpowering he may be. So you pull back slightly, before swallowing him again. And again. And again. Over and over, till Akashi is on the brink of insanity and you declare yourself the winner of this round. 

But you are never the winner. You know this. 

“Chihiro,” Akashi breathes, eyes gleaming in the dimly lit room. He lets his arms fall to the side and drops, as gently as possible, the instrument onto the floor. With force—you call it desperation—his fingers are in your hair, roughly grabbing the soft strands. You want to stop and tell him you won because he didn’t finish the piece, but he forces you to remain put. And, really, you do not care. You suck him off with all the intensity you can muster, all while delighting in the way his legs tremble and shudder, in the way he calls your name oh so frantically, in the way his voice cracks despite his trying to remain in control. And though he will always come out on top, when he spills into your mouth, you rejoice. He has given himself over to you in a way he never—you lie to yourself—does to others. 

When you pull away, you look up at Akashi who wears his usual smile. 

“You swallowed all of that, didn’t you?” Akashi shakes his head as if in disgust, but you can sense his excitement in the way his fingers gently travel along your face and scalp. “Were you always this perverted, Chihiro?”

You snort, grab him by the wrists, and pull him down. He, astonishingly, complies, hands cupping your cheeks. Your lips meet, and you wonder if he can taste himself on your tongue. If he does, he does not care, for he is too busy pulling you closer, as if trying to defy every law of science and reason in order to coalesce, to become one entity. Your arms wrap around Akashi’s torso, hands splaying against a still-clothed back. He smiles into the kiss, and you lose yourself as you let him press your back against the floor, as he crawls over you and steals your breath. 

Your thoughts run wild, but they are all about Akashi.


End file.
